


Memory Lane

by Balder12



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley's Fall (Good Omens), Drinking & Talking, Gen, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 18:25:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19932508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Balder12/pseuds/Balder12
Summary: Aziraphale asks Crowley about his fall and gets an answer he doesn't like.  Also new information about Crowley's fashion choices.





	Memory Lane

Crowley wasn’t sure what path the conversation had taken to bring them here. They’d been in the tavern for three hours and had reached the point in the evening when talk gets a little more honest and a lot less linear.

Aziraphale was leaning forward, chin on hand, earnestly studying him. “But, surely . . . “. He furrowed his brow, fortified himself with a swig of wine, and tried to formulate his thought again. “Don’t you remember anything from Before?”

Crowley had every intention of keeping his expression neutral, but apparently he failed, because the question was hardly out of Aziraphale’s mouth before he looked mortified and cut himself off with, “Oh, that was rude of me, wasn’t it? I’m sorry, don’t feel you have to answer that.”

“No, no it’s all right,” Crowley said, with a twitch of something that might pass for a smile. “I hit my head on the way down, but not that hard. Of course, I remember being an angel.” He suspected Aziraphale was hoping for a description of something reassuringly dramatic, a grand moment when the lighting changed, and the world turned upside down. The kind of thing he couldn’t imagine ever happening to himself. But it hadn’t been like that. 

“I’m no different now, you know, from how I was then. Not in any way that matters. Me in Heaven was just me, in Heaven. Most of the time I was bored out of my incorporeal skull.” He’d been saying similar things to Aziraphale for millennia, without making much of an impression, but he knew he was right. All the more so now that the Arrangement meant that half the time they were literally doing each other’s jobs. Aziraphale could tempt a Scottish clan leader to steal cattle as well as Crowley could, and Crowley could deliver blessings and the occasional religious ecstasy as well as Aziraphale. Possibly better, in the case of religious ecstasy. Just ask St. Theresa. 

“All I did was hang out with the wrong crowd, and suddenly my office was in the basement,” Crowley went on. Aziraphale was watching him with a look that was half pity and half horror. It was, Crowley thought, rather like the look humans gave the lepers in the street. It was probably time for him to stop talking, but he wanted to push. Wanted to shake Aziraphale’s certainty, just a little. “On a different day, maybe I would’ve been off making minor corrections on a nebula, and you would’ve been the one in the breakroom when Lucifer and the guys came by. Could be in that world I’m on that side of the table and you’re on this one. And nothing would’ve really changed.”

For an instant there was real fear on Aziraphale’s face, and then he remembered himself. “No,” he said, drawing his righteousness tight around him like a coat. “No, I don’t believe that. I wouldn’t ‘hang out with the wrong crowd,’ as you say. My virtue is ever vigilant.” He seemed a little uncomfortable. “And all that. You know.” He emptied his glass.

“You think,” said Crowley lightly. “I think you might’ve been persuadable, under the right circumstances.” The next words were already spilling onto his tongue: ‘Might still be. We both know you like hanging out with the wrong crowd, don’t you? You’re here with me now.’ His lips were parted to speak when he realized what would happen if he said it. Aziraphale would leave. The tavern, and probably the continent. Maybe he’d apply to be reassigned to the Head Office. Crowley wouldn’t see him for a century. He might never see him again at all. The two of them were different in at least one respect, which was that Aziraphale would have been smart enough to run in the other direction when Lucifer waved a massive collection of red flags directly in his face. Crowley had stuck around to see what would happen. 

Crowley was startled by the intensity of his own anger. His hand was shaking around the wine glass, in rhythm with the pulse of his entirely unnecessary heart. He was either too drunk or too sober for this conversation. He settled on the latter, and topped himself up. Most of the wine made it into his cup. 

When he looked up, Aziraphale was staring at him, and any self-righteousness had faded into open concern. 

Crowley gazed into his wine and considered all the possible options for his next sentence. Nothing he was angry about was Aziraphale’s fault, not really, and Crowley suddenly wanted badly for him to stay, and keep talking awhile longer. There was never any telling when they’d meet again. 

What he settled on was, “Speaking of things we have in common, did I ever tell you my wings are the same color as yours, naturally?” His voice was steadier than his hands.

Aziraphale studied Crowley with a skeptical gaze. “I saw them in Eden,” he said at last, carefully, like this might be a trap. “Yours are black.”

Crowley shrugged. “I dye them.” It was true. If he was going to be a demon, he was going to be the flashiest demon that he possibly could. 

Aziraphale’s face lit up with a smile that was a mixture of scandalized incredulity and delight. “You never!”

“I do. They wouldn’t match my outfits otherwise.” 

“But how . . .?” Aziraphale was leaning forward again, all earnest curiosity, any awkwardness between them already forgotten.

“Miracle it, mostly,” Crowley said. “I tried to do it by hand once, but it didn’t take well, and I absolutely destroyed my bedchamber.”

Aziraphale laughed, and looked Crowley over in a way that suggested he was probably going to demand to inspect his wings some drunken night soon. Crowley wasn’t opposed to that. He rallied himself and returned Aziraphale’s smile as best he could. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but that’s what the glasses were for. 


End file.
